Assault Force. Don Pendleton

country—ethnic cleansing of the undesirable elements—centuries before America had bombed Serbia into surrender. Who was he, only following tradition and orders himself, to question the morality of his actions, much less be judged by the West for trying to save his own kind? Hand himself over to so-called authorities for so-called atrocities, submit, forsake his will? Never.

      Life had changed drastically since the NATO peacekeepers had marched in, maintaining what was an uneasy peace, at best, between the various ethnic groups. Someone had once told him change was good. Let that same individual tell him that now and he would pump a 9 mm round from his automatic pistol between the speaker’s eyes. It was degrading enough an officer of his mighty reputation had been forced to become a common gangster in Belgrade, selling drugs, peddling whores, extorting business owners, just to survive. And with a sealed indictment out there, somewhere in Europe, with his and the old man’s names stamped on it, plastic surgery had altered his once handsome face into a stranger he barely recognized in the mirror. As for the old man, nothing could change blubbery girth like a whale, the face of a baboon.

      Changes, he thought, sounded like a sad song with an abysmal desperate end.

      So, what was he now, he wondered, as he heard the witch demand he refill her glass with champagne. Beyond top lieutenant for the old man, it seemed he was expected to play the gofering eunuch for Mistress of the Month. Perhaps when they served chilled vodka in Hell, he thought. He had her number, thank God, and foresight enough to have filmed their brief but torrid liaison. It was leverage he was on the verge of using, if only to warn her she’d better show him respect.

      Flicking cigar ash over the railing, he glared at the scuffle, wishing for his own outlet for all the pent-up aggression that had him seeing red. From the bird’s-eye view twelve stories up he didn’t need field glasses to read the situation. Security goons were dragging off two guests who were still flailing in their grasp, shouting obscenities. Suits from the movie entourage were gesturing all around the gold lion, shrugging at other tuxedoed hotel muscle, big shots restoring calm, ready to grease the right skids so they didn’t get booted, or the incident sully their Star’s name.

      Well, he had hassles of his own, he thought bitterly.

      A long stare out to sea, unable to count all the vessels, and Golic wished they were back on the old man’s yacht. At least cruising the Mediterranean there seemed far less worry about constant vigilance against foreign commandos or bitter rivals. Any approaching craft was easy enough to spot, blow out of the water, if need be. As he searched the pool and its crowded deck, the vast garden and running bars, he knew any guest masquerading as some playboy could pose a threat. Perhaps the door would crash down with commandos slapping all of them in the face with those sealed indictments. Sure, they possessed bogus ID and passports. Yes, some of the local authorities were bribed into silence and submission, ready to alert them if a raid was being planned. But Golic felt the knot in his gut. Something was about to go terribly wrong.

      “Yzet! Where is he?” the woman shrieked.

      He clenched his jaw, willing the old man’s return. There was business with some up-and-coming club owner in the city to conduct, a deal that would make the man rich beyond his wildest hopes, while cleaning their cash.

      Already galled by what he knew he would find inside the suite, he strode through the open French doors. The old man was probably indulging himself with his whores, staying drunk, but meanwhile part of their duty was to guard the party albeit in envy from the sidelines.

      He found her at the deep end of the massive living room, inside the open doors, stretched on her stomach on a padded leather table. Curtains fluttered near the glass in her outstretched hand as she enjoyed the view and the evening breeze. Ilina Kradja was beautiful, Golic had to admit, and as evil as the day was long. She repeated his name like some curse word.

      “I need more champagne. In the kitchen. And open a new bottle. Go, damn you! Why do you just stand there like some idiot?”

      Golic snorted, puffed his cigar, held his ground. He felt the rage darken and boil, despised, too, the lust flaming in his belly, trying hard not to stare at creamy flesh shamelessly displayed. Whether for the envy of the whores—the scantily clad trollops lounged on the huge horseshoe-shaped tiger-skinned couch, or to amuse herself over the torment his own soldier was forced to endure as he massaged her, it was clear she was charged by showing off her stark nakedness. Having seen such an exhibition before, Golic could already hear her wicked laughter when Nikimko, the masseur, excused himself after the rubdown for a prolonged absence in the bathroom.

      When she reminded him of his lowly status, embellished with lying taunts about his manhood and finally calling him boychick, it felt as if the core of his brain erupted with hot lava. He took a few steps her way then stopped and pinned her with a cold stare. “Amazing,” he said.

      Through the thunder in his ears he somehow heard the viper spit, “What? What is so amazing, boychick?”

      A few of the whores, swiping at their noses, looked from the porn movie on the giant-screen television to Kradja, then watched him closely. Golic wondered why it had taken him so long to work up the courage, as he told her, “You have everything a woman could want, but you are never satisfied.”

      “How dare…”

      “Shut up! You are a despicable creature, Ilina Kradja,” he snarled, his lust firing to new and darker depths as she lay there, trembling, shocked, speechless.

      “You are a bottomless pit of demands. Unless there is endless money you can consume or much social stature to bask in, men are nothing but peasants in your eyes, to be held in your contempt, ignored, or trampled by your wretched existence.”

      Golic was moving away as she sputtered, “Come back here! I will have your balls cut off and nailed to the wall for speaking to me like that! Do you hear me?”

      He heard the door chimes instead. The old man’s raucous laughter sounded as he came stumbling down the wide foyer, Krysha pawing him upright, brushing the white jacket. Vidan and Radic took up in the rear. Golic waited while the boss and his plaything of the hour moved down the steps. He could feel Ilina’s smoldering fire, but knew she’d keep her mouth shut. Knowing her, she’d scheme of other ways to make his life miserable while keeping Dragovan Vikholic in the dark.

      Impatient to discuss business, Golic scowled while the boss launched into a brief tirade about the hotel, cursing its guests and the slow service, but almost in the same breath laughing what a grand time he was having.

      “Oh, my little princess,” he said, slobbering all over Krysha’s face, “how I wish I could stay here forever. Kiss Daddy with some sugar, if it so please you.”

      Golic tuned out the spectacle, wondering where the hell his life was headed, when he heard the chimes again. Vidan wheeled about-face and headed back down the foyer. Golic hoped it was the new pigeon.

      He was moving away from the steps, about to clear his throat and call to Vikholic, when he heard what sounded like a loud thud. Instinct flared to angry life. Visions of commandos storming the suite taking shape in his mind like winged demons, he whirled toward the foyer, cigar snapped off between clenched teeth. He was digging out his pistol when he spied the object, spewing a funnel of smoke, before it arced overhead, sailing on. A glimpse of armed invaders in gas masks, then the acrid cloud swarmed Golic, legs folding as a black veil dropped over his eyes.

      HAMID BHARJKHAN CAUTIONED himself against overconfidence. They were in. There was never any real doubt about initial penetration—Spanish operatives had been planted as employees a year earlier with the assistance of their financiers—but this simply started the clock. Head shrouded in a black hood as were the others. He unleathered the sound-suppressed Spanish 9 mm Star automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and marched off the private security-service elevator. The halls were clear, but why wouldn’t they be?

      He waved an arm and they raced into action. Two large bellhop dollies, heaped with black bags, rolled off the cage. Assault rifles were set on the carpeted floor, and two teammates went to work. One of them opened the panel, wiring the elevator car immobile, but slated to rise for the south edge of the lobby should